


Triage

by confusedkayt



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Could Be Canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately after the beach scene in First Class.</p><p>“Can you take me back to the beach?  We’ll extract Charles…”  Azazel looks at Erik sharply.  “He may not be with us, but he is still one of us,” he says, crisp, and Azazel nods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triage

Erik’s feet are still skidding from Azazel’s imprecise landing when he pinpoints it. It’s odd, heady – metal singing to him loudly and insistently instead of waiting quietly for his call, the very air around them thick with ropes of power. He’ll think about that later, when there’s time. For now, he’s found a telephone.

A few quick calls – it takes only four before he hears the same hospital mentioned more than once. That’s what they want, then, and they’re in luck – England. Charles will blend right in.

Azazel and the other one - what is his name, Charles said Janos but that wasn’t his true name – are still standing awkwardly on the small porch. Raven has turned up a first-aid kit somewhere – resourceful girl – and is dabbing at the edge of a tight-jawed Angel’s charred wing. “All right?” he asks, and Angel nods, sharply. Raven’s nod is more hesitant, but he’ll take it – there’s nowhere they can take an injury like Angel’s.

“Azazel,” and the man snaps to attention, which is gratifying and sickening in equal parts, “do you think you can reach England from Cuba?”

“With myself? Maybe. With a passenger?” He shrugs. “One stop.”

Charles won’t leave without a struggle, certainly not without at least one of the others. “Three passengers?”

“Two stops.” He pauses, frowns. “Three, at this moment.”

“Good man,” Erik nods. “Three. All right. What kind of information do you need?”

“For this? A map.”

Erik nods. “He keeps some here?”

“Yes,” and the man strides in to the house without ceremony.

They’re lucky, or more likely all of Schmidt’s hideouts are equipped for this – there is a world atlas in the drawer, with a decent detail map of England. “Here. Stoke Mandeville. Can you find it?” Azazel studies the map, muttering in Russian, stabs at in three precise points, and nods. “Can you take me back to the beach? We’ll extract Charles…” The man looks at him sharply. “He may not be with us, but he is still one of us,” he says, crisp, and Azazel nods.

“All right,” he says, and extends a hand. Azazel takes it without fanfare and there’s that wrenching pop but he’s ready for it this time and lands steady in the sand. Alex, Sean and Hank are clustered around Charles. Moira… Dog tags and that gun, in the plane. The radio. Right.

Alex, at least, has some sense – he’s up, facing them, clearly gathering for a strike. “I want to take him to a hospital,” Erik announces and Alex looks thrown by that, his shoulders relaxing. No blast immanent. Good. “Someone needs to come with him.” He looks them over. “Sean. Are you injured?”

“No?” he says, slow, eyes narrowed.

“Good. Come with us,” Erik orders and the boy, bless him, gets to his feet. “Fewer questions than he’ll get,” he says, gesturing at Alex’s charred chestpiece.

“Why should we trust you?” Hank bites out, still cradling Charles. Good. Recent developments have put a little spine in him. Much-needed.

“Because Charles doesn’t have time for the alternative,” Erik says, meeting Hank’s eyes. Hank looks away. Good.

Charles is awake – a good sign, if not a mercy. He’s speaking, continuous. Of course he is. _Charles._

This is not a time for sentiment. Erik strides over, stoops down and he can hear it now, like a record stuck on repeat. “I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs.”

No time. “Charles,” he says with some force. Hazy blue eyes track lazily toward him, not focused. Not good, but to be expected. “Charles, I’m going to lift you now. It’s going to hurt.”

“Like hell you are,” and there’s Moira, finally done with the radio.

How he wishes he had the luxury of ignoring her. “He needs a hospital.”

“There are medics coming…”

“He needs a _hospital,_ ” Erik repeats. “We’ll get him there.”

“How do we know…”

“He doesn’t have time for this,” Erik snaps and she backs off, mouth pinched.

“Charles,” he says, refocusing his attention where it’s needed but so help him if she makes one false move… But she’s still, standing down. Good. “Charles, I’m going to lift you now.”

Charles breaks his litany, gives a sharp nod. It must cost him – a lesser man would have screamed but Charles… Well. No time.

“Sean, Azazel,” Erik says quietly. Sean lays a nervous hand on his shoulder, Azazel takes a firm grip on them both and there it goes. He tries to cushion the landing but Charles’ sharp hiss tells him he hasn’t done a good job of it. Another wrench, and this time he stumbles. Charles cries out at that, and Erik can feel his jaw tighten. Almost there. Wrench. The pebbles under his feet are slippery, but he stays mostly stable this time and one more stomach-churning pop and there they are. It’s not a very big town – the hospital is obvious. He nods, and Azazel phases them out once more, into the shadows by the side of the building.

“Can you carry him?” Erik asks and Sean’s doubtful look is all the answer he needs. “All right, then. Here’s what we’re going to do. Azazel, if you can take us right next to that tree, by the entrance. Sean, I want you to kneel down immediately and get ready to take his weight. I’ll hand him over, and then Azazel and I will go. Clear?”

Sean gives a shaky nod. Azazel’s is terse, firm. “All right. Let’s go.”

It’s relatively smooth – Charles cries out again at the transfer, can’t be helped, and then he’s gone, out of sight.

Azazel looks unruffled but his features are hard to read. “Can you get us back to Argentina?” A pause. Erik rolls his shoulders. “We have time, now, if you need to rest.”

“I can do it.” A fierce grin. “Four stops.”

Erik nods, takes a hold of the man’s shoulder, and England fades out around them.


End file.
